


The Potions Master of Hogwarts

by pentacs14



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Gen, Work In Progress, a 'what could have happened if' fic, hoping this turns into a magnum opus but it's early days yet, warnings for OOC characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentacs14/pseuds/pentacs14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What life may have been like for Harry if someone other than Hagrid had come to collect him from the hut-on-the-rock and introduced him to wizarding society. Or how Severus copes with a precocious tween turning his orderly life upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimer: Do not own, am making no profit, etc.
> 
> Unusual disclaimers: This is a work in progress! It has been lurking around (both in my brain and on my hard drive) for years. I haven't the slightest clue how long it will end up being or how long it will be between installments but I can tell you that there will be no set schedule and I will not apologize if there ends up being large gaps between updates. I really don't want to lose the thread of this one so I'm posting it now knowing that it may end up being abandoned for long periods of time but in the hopes that it doesn't disappear into the ether from which it came. I will try to keep the writing style consistent but there being such a big gap between pieces it may be hard. I will also admit that many of my characters are going to be OOC in regards to canon but honestly that's half the fun of fanfiction, changing it all around to how you would have told the story. All that being said... I hope you like it! And kudos to anyone who waded through that paragraph of unrelenting nonsense just to read a silly little 'what could have been' fic.

Harry shifted restlessly on the hard floor, the thin ragged blanket doing nothing to warm him as he counted down the seconds to his eleventh birthday. The storm raged unabated outside but the howling wind and low rumbles of thunder seemed to fade into the background the closer Dudley's state of the art glow-in-the-dark watch came to midnight. 

Just as the dial ticked over and Harry opened his mouth to wish himself a decidedly unhappy birthday a strange noise occurred that gave him pause.

Rat a tat tat.

It was a familiar noise; only sounding out of place because it couldn't possibly be occurring now, at this precise moment, here, in a hut on a rock in the middle of the sea. 

Someone was outside knocking to come in.

Rat a Tat Tat! The staccato noise came more insistently this time, the whole hut seeming to shake and the windows to rattle with the force of their unknown visitor's hammering of the flimsy door.

Dudley jerked out of a sound sleep to land flailing on the floor and Harry sniggered. The fat lump had obviously forgotten that he was no longer sleeping in his big cozy bed back at home but was instead perched rather precariously on a mean little sofa that had seen better days. Possibly better centuries.

“Where's the gun?” the blond blob asked stupidly as he tried to fight his way free of the tangle of moldy blankets.

Harry suppressed another snigger and the hysterical urge to say 'Right there!' when Uncle Vernon came skidding out of the bedroom holding a rifle. That explained the long thin package he had brought with them but not what he had thought he was going to be using it on, out here in the literal middle of nowhere. 

Aunt Petunia wasn't far behind her husband, her disgusting fuchsia dressing gown fluttering out behind her as she practically galloped over to wrestle Dudley from his blanket prison. With an incomprehensible hand gesture Uncle Vernon hissed “Get down. Now!” and Aunt Petunia dragged a still groggy Dudley behind the dubious shelter of the sofa. 

Not that it was going to do them any good. The battered old thing looked almost as tired as Harry felt. He was honestly surprised it hadn't collapsed under Dudley during the night and it certainly didn't look capable of warding off any attack stronger than a sneezing fit. And even that was up for debate.

The uselessness of their position was only highlighted when Harry sat up and saw that a fair portion of both Dudley and his mother could be seen poking out from behind their meager shelter. Dudley's bulk spilled out the side while Aunt Petunia's long neck and pointed nose -- so good for peering through curtains and over hedges -- stuck up like a giraffe trying to hide in the grass.

“Who's there?” Uncle Vernon's hysterical shout rang out. The wild-eyed look that had terrified his family in the last few days was not only back but had intensified to an alarming degree. “I warn you, I'm armed!”

Dead silence enveloped them. Even the wind seemed to die down for a second. Then...

Crash!

The door flew open with wood-splintering force and met the wall with a resounding smack that had Harry up on his feet before he even realized he'd moved. The hinges gave way and the door slumped uselessly to one side.

Silhouetted against the storm-ravaged sea in the now gaping doorway stood a figure straight out of a fire and brimstone nightmare. It was large and surrounded by bat-like wings that snapped in the wind. All Harry could think of were the descriptions of demons that madmen on street corners raved about when they tried to convince you that the world was coming to an end. He was suddenly less sure they were as daft as everyone believed.

Uncle Vernon's face paled significantly and the rifle seemed to wilt in his hands. Harry backed up until he was almost inside the fireplace. It seemed much more defensible than the tattered sofa Uncle Vernon was currently trying to join his wife and son behind. With much squawking and flailing of limbs they managed to cram themselves into a pathetic huddle.

Uncle Vernon came first, the gun quivering violently where it pointed over the sofa's low back. Aunt Petunia came next, almost completely hidden behind her husband, while Dudley crouched, terrified and completely visible, behind her. For a split second Harry considered joining them -- hiding behind Dudley's massive bulk would be almost as good as wearing body armor -- but it was too late.

The creature stepped inside and Harry's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as the door righted itself and once again took up its duty of keeping the outside out. The deafening silence that followed was almost palpable. Harry could hear his own pulse pounding and tried desperately to suppress his labored breathing in order to remain unnoticed.

The figure moved further into the room and a grimy little hurricane lamp suspended from a rafter sprang to life. It didn't give off much light but it was enough to allow a very relieved Harry to see that the intruder was no demon, as he had first thought, but a man. He was tall and thin, with a face like a vulture, oily black hair and voluminous robes that now draped about him rather than being whipped into a frenzy by the wind. 

Despite his rather alarming entrance and strange outfit he seemed like a normal person, the sort you could pass in the aisles of the supermarket without noticing if you were intent on your shopping, all except for his eyes. Dark, glittering, piercing... They seemed to be weighing his very soul and Harry stood transfixed like a field mouse at the approach of a hawk.

He let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding when the man looked away, taking in the rude little hut and its inhabitants with an unhurried glance. To Harry's consternation the rifle received no more than a sneer as the man walked with stiff dignity to where Harry himself was still pressed against the mantel.

“Mr. Potter, I presume.” The voice was emotionless and cold as black ice. It took a moment for Harry's terrified brain to register what had been said. 

The man had addressed him. 

Personally. 

By name. 

With a mister attached.

It was rare for anyone to address Harry, much less as anything other than 'boy' or 'freak' or an occasional venomous 'Potter.' It took a minute for it to sink in. This man was clearly dangerous, everything about him screamed of dark horrible things that went bump in the night, and yet...

He was just a man. And he had spoken to Harry, addressed him the same way the letters did. Harry felt his mind spin with the possibilities.

He had never been more terrified in his life but if there was a chance of figuring out what had been going on recently then this was the place to start. Ignoring the urge to run gibbering in an attempt to squeeze himself under the already overtaxed sofa, Harry screwed his courage to the proverbial sticking place and took a step forward.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. He was pleased to note that his voice held only a mild tremor. “Please, sir, are you the one who's been sending the letters?”

“Not precisely,” was the dispassionate reply, “but it is regarding them that I have come.”

“Do... do you have another?” Harry asked, fear warring with hope in his voice. He rushed on when he saw the surprise on the man's face. “Only my uncle seems to have mislaid the last few and I really wanna know what they say.” 

A sound remarkably like someone trying to throttle a boiling teapot came from somewhere behind him but Harry ignored it and kept his eyes on the stranger. The man regarded him coolly for a moment and Harry found himself, once again, nearly hypnotized by that dark gaze.

“Mislaid them,” the man repeated, his tone still remote but with an ironic twist to his lips. “I see. I do seem to be in possession of one such letter with explicit instructions to place it directly into your hands.”

Harry gave a relieved sigh. Could that possibly be suppressed amusement lurking on the man's face? After some of the scenarios that had been running through his head he could handle a hint of mockery. He allowed himself to hope he might survive this encounter yet. 

He managed one eager step forward, his hand outstretched, before he was hit from the side by what felt like a rampaging wildebeest. Only his quick reflexes -- born of years avoiding both his uncle's wrath and Dudley's gang -- kept him from smacking into the fireplace with bone-crunching force.

“I won't stand for it!” Uncle Vernon's voice was strangled but furious as he stood between Harry and the stranger.

“Excuse me?”

Harry stared at his uncle in shock. Did the man have no sense of self-preservation? A smarter person would have quailed at the level of malice in those two innocuous words, much less the narrowed eyes and curling lip. Not Uncle Vernon.

“I refuse to allow this... this,” Harry's uncle sputtered in an attempt to come up with a word that suitably described the situation he found himself in, “freakishness to continue!”

Suddenly he seemed to remember the rifle he still held in his hands and Harry watched in horror as he made to aim it at the man standing before him. He raised it... and raised it... and raised it... And continued raising it to the point where it was obvious that Uncle Vernon was no longer in control of the weapon at all. 

He tried desperately to keep a hold on the barrel but with his arms fully extended above his head and the tips of his shoes threatening to leave solid ground he was quickly forced to let go. Everyone craned their necks to watch in stunned disbelief as it came to rest among the exposed rafters.

Harry felt his mind go numb. 

What the heck was going on?

Looking past Uncle Vernon as if he was no more than a particularly annoying bug the man's gaze fell once more on the shabby sofa and the two figures still huddled behind it. He sneered as Aunt Petunia placed a trembling hand to her chest, turned a sickly shade of clotted cream and toppled over backwards with a painful sounding thump. Dudley stared down at his mother gobsmacked.

Looking on the verge of complete collapse himself Uncle Vernon rushed to his wife with yet another strangled cry. Harry could hardly credit his eyes as he watched his uncle trying to roll the unconscious woman over the back of the poor abused sofa, her long limbs hindering his best attempts. With a snarl he turned on his son and Dudley gave a squawk before hurriedly shoving at her legs until his mother fell ungracefully onto the seat.

“This is yours, I believe,” the man said as he thrust the envelope at an oblivious Harry.

The disgust was rolling off the man in waves. Harry couldn't tell if it was due to the whole ridiculous situation, his ghastly relatives, or the way Harry couldn't stop his unintentional impression of a brain dead goldfish. He found he didn't much care as the man once again gestured impatiently at him with the envelope.

Snapping his mouth shut and pushing his very considerable confusion to the back of his mind Harry practically snatched the envelope from the man's hand before it could be withdrawn. He knew his manners were appalling but under the circumstances... Well, he would feel bad about it later. 

Even though his uncle seemed completely preoccupied with trying to revive his aunt Harry still turned away and hunched his shoulders reflexively as he read the address on the envelope. After the chaos of the last few days he was finally going to read the innocent looking letter that was causing so much excitement.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry's hands shook as he read the front of the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green ink to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea.

He didn't notice the man turn towards him with a raised brow at the mirthless laugh that escaped his lips. How easy it was to sum up the ridiculous position he held in the Dursleys' life. 

“At least they stopped addressing them to the cupboard,” Harry muttered to himself. A second brow joined the first under the man's hairline as he turned to give the trio still thrashing about on the other side of the room a narrow assessing look.

The senior Dursley appeared to be flailing his wife's arms in a grotesque parody of a windmill under the mistaken impression that this would help revive her somehow. The younger boy poked at her feet listlessly with an expression that said quite plainly he had no idea what was going on but that he was mere moments from having a complete fit.

None of this registered with Harry who was too busy ripping open his letter and reading its contents to notice much of anything.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY (it proclaimed)

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.  
Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,  
Deputy Headmistress

Harry's head was spinning in circles so fast he didn't know what to address first. Almost against his will his eyes were drawn to the ceiling where the rifle was doing casual loop-de-loos under the eaves.

“Was that... magic, then?” Harry asked hesitantly. “That stuff with the gun and the lamp and the door?”

“Of course,” and Harry could almost hear the 'idiot boy' left unvoiced at the end of that dry statement.

“Only...” Harry hesitated again. What does one say in a situation like this? “Magic isn't real, is it? Not actual magic. Not like fairies and unicorns magic.”

“Magic -- actual magic, as you put it -- is very much real. As are fairies, mangy little pests that they are, and unicorns, who happen to be rather flighty and brainless but also very powerful and as such good for spells and potions.”

“But...” Harry trailed off. He wanted desperately to refute the man's words as so much fantastical nonsense but he couldn't explain what he had seen any other way. Besides Harry didn't want to disagree with a man who, despite how patient he was being, was the most dangerous and cruel-looking person he had ever seen.

He looked down at the letter in his hand. A school of magic? And they wanted him? It was so far beyond ridiculous that Harry honestly believed it must be some sort of practical joke. Soon someone was going to pop out of the second room screaming “Surprise!” and the Dursleys would laugh at how well they had tricked Harry. 

That's what it was. A birthday prank. Never mind that the Dursleys had rarely even acknowledged his birthday before and that they had never put this much effort into anything remotely related to him as far back as he could remember and that they would have to be really good actors to have pulled off the last few days and it must have cost so much money to pay all these people to go along with it and...

“Oh, for Circe's sake!” the man's irritable exclamation interrupted Harry's wandering thoughts. “Look,” and he reached out a pale long-fingered hand towards the fireplace Harry stood next to still.

With only a faint gesture, and no noise at all, a raging fire sprang up to consume the pathetic pile of blackened chip bags and continued crackling merrily without any visible fuel whatsoever. Harry knew he should be terrified but things had been happening so fast that he had forgotten how damp and miserable and dim it was until the cheerful blaze banished all that and left him oddly cheered.

A squeal from the other side of the room was Dudley attempting to jump over the couch in surprise at the sudden appearance of flames. He didn't come anywhere close to making it and went sprawling over the top to land heavily on the floor. Uncle Vernon had dragged his wife up and plastered her to his chest -- a position that was no more suited to reviving her than his previous antics had been -- as he backed rapidly away.

The tall man grinned sardonically and Harry found himself smiling back. Anyone who could discomfit the Dursleys so many times in such a short period was okay in his book.

“Are you the headmaster, then?” Harry asked. He glanced down at the letter he still held. “Mr. Dumbledore?”

“Merlin, no!” The man answered fervently. “That is one job I do not envy. I am simply one of the professors.” 

There was a heavy undercurrent to that statement that confused Harry. He heard an odd emphasis that made him wonder briefly what job the man did envy and, with as capable and fearsome as he looked, why he did not already possess it. But then his curiosity got the better of him.

“So this school...” Harry started only to be cut off abruptly.

“He's not going.”

Harry had been so intent upon getting as much information as he could that for a second he had lost track of the other people in the room. He and the professor turned to see Uncle Vernon standing not far away looking pale but determined.

“I beg your pardon?” Only it sounded more to Harry like 'One more word and I will be forced to remove you from existence.'

Once again his uncle proved he had absolutely no survival instincts by opening his mouth.

“I said he won't be going,” Uncle Vernon announced in a fair approximation of his old booming tones. “We haven't the money to be wasting on the likes of him. Especially not for that Hogwash whatever. He'll be going to Stonewall and he'll ruddy well behave himself or...”

“I don't believe you quite understand the position you find yourself in,” the professor interrupted with narrowed eyes. “No one here has asked for nor is interested in anything you may have to say. The boy is going to Hogwarts and that is final.”

“I will not have any of this magic mumbo-jumbo in my house! Spell books and wands and... and dragon whatsits! I read that stupid letter. Mugwumps and fungi and what have you. I'll not countenance that sort of rubbish in my home where my own sweet wife and precious son lay their heads... ”

“Oh, yes, Dursley,” the professor bit back heatedly. “Because your brittle wife and precious lump of a son are obviously in danger from a pile of school books and some uniforms...”

“The money we've squandered on that waste of space already! I'll not be paying for a bunch of crackerjack loonies to...”

“You've obviously lavished the boy with care and attention.” Harry colored at the professor's cutting tone. He'd never felt more ashamed of his scrawny appearance, his cousin's overlarge ratty castoffs and his oft-mended glasses. “And I'll have you know that Hogwarts is the preeminent school of witchcraft and wizardry in the country.”

“Oh, preeminent, is it? Preeminent school of hooey and baloney, more like.”

“You are dangerously close to destroying the last vestige of my patience, you odious little man.”

“Odious? Why, you freak of nature! I...”

“You cretinous pile of regurgitated...”

Harry thought for a second the two men, now standing toe-to-toe and almost nose-to-nose, were actually going to start throwing punches before a voice silenced everything.

“Let the little rat go.”

Everyone turned to stare at Petunia Dursley, slumped against the wall where her husband had left her, her face still the color of week old clotted cream. Dudley, who had been tugging on his mother's sleeve to get her attention, looked absolutely horrified to suddenly be the center of everyone else's regard and tried to slink away unnoticed. The slinking was less than graceful but no one was inclined to remark on his departure or notice where he slunk off to.

“But... but, Pet!” Harry's uncle sputtered. The man's mouth seemed incapable of remaining shut long enough to form any truly coherent words.

“I said let the little monster go,” his aunt repeated as she set her jaw mulishly. “Let him go and good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

“But... but, Pet!” His uncle's brain was apparently stuck on repeat.

“We swore when we took him in we'd discipline the weirdness out of him and look how far that's gotten us. Look at us now!” she demanded and gestured about the hut wildly. “If anything his abnormality grows day by day!”

Harry stared at his aunt with a sick feeling growing in his stomach. He had known none of the Dursleys liked him much but they put up with him for the most part. The neglect had rarely degenerated into outright abuse and that had been enough for Harry. 

He hadn't been happy but his life had been placid and there had been a sort of dreariness that felt familiar and almost comforting at times. Sometimes whole days went by without him thinking of what his life would have been like with real parents or a family that loved him. 

He had done everything they asked of him, not always with good grace but that wasn't so hard to understand with the way they treated him. Still, he had done it because they were his family. They were all he had in this world and his aunt was his only living relative.

His aunt who was currently glaring at him so heatedly he half expected the letter in his hand to burst into flame as magically as the fire against his back had roared into existence.

“Hello, Petunia,” the professor drawled into the charged silence. “How good of you to finally join us.”

“You!” Harry's aunt spat venomously as she swung around. “I remember you now. Always sniffing around my sister. Trying to impress her with your queer little magic tricks. You were a loathsome little boy then and you've grown to be a vile maggot of a man.”

“The years have been as kind to you as they have to me, madam,” he replied with sneering formality. “And may I add how very pleasant it is to see you again.” It was obviously anything but.

Harry had a moment to worry whether it was possible for his jaw to fall clean off from the amount of time it was spending open before his brain clicked over to the important part of the last exchange and something in his chest twisted.

“You knew my mum?” he demanded just as his uncle caught his third -- or was it fourth? -- wind of the night.

“How dare you speak to my wife that way!” he bellowed with rage.

“I dare much and there's nothing a fat pig of a muggle such as yourself can do about it. Now, this is what is going to happen.” The man drew himself up to his full, not inconsiderable height, and stalked forward menacingly. “I shall be taking this boy with me as you obviously have neither the common human decency nor the intelligence to care for him yourselves. If it were up to me you would never see him again."

He paused here and if Harry hadn't been terrified to within an inch of his life he might have crowed at that statement.

"Unfortunately it is not up to me but I can and will enforce a marked change in your behavior towards him. You will begin to act as the civilized human beings you pretend to be if you care at all for your hateful little lives.”

He ignored Aunt Petunia's angry snarl and Uncle Vernon's rapidly purpling face as he continued his demands.

“You will have a brief farewell in which you wish the boy well in his studies. You will send him a letter once a month to ask him how he is getting on and whether he needs anything. At holiday times you will give him permission to stay at Hogwarts if he so chooses and during breaks you will allow him back into your home with all the amenities to which he is entitled and that you have deprived him of for all these years.”

“Not ruddy likely!” began Harry's uncle before his wife cut him off.

“If you think for one second we would agree to take back that little degenerate before we've even gotten rid of him you're insane,” Aunt Petunia hissed viciously.

“I'd as soon you never lay eyes on him again but certain parties have insisted on this course of action so you will comply,” the professor replied hotly.

“You'll not be dictating to me!” Uncle Vernon screamed as his face graduated from purple to scarlet.

“You'll do as you're told or so help me I'll have Dumbledore here so fast it will make your tiny minds explode!” the professor shouted over the top of him.

“Dumbledore!?” Petunia snarled. “Tell your precious Dumbledore to stuff it up his beard!”

Harry's gaze was bouncing from person to person so fast he felt like he was watching a tennis match. His mind was in such turmoil he could barely keep up with the conversation. He was leaving the Dursleys? They had to be nice to him? Dumbledore had a beard?

The only thing Harry was sure of was that none of this could possibly be true. He had to have fallen asleep waiting for midnight. This was all just a dream his subconscious had cooked up for his birthday. He tried pinching his arm but all he succeeded in doing was hurting himself. Maybe he was dead? He'd fallen out of the boat and drowned because no one had ever taught him how to swim and his brain just hadn't caught up yet.

All thoughts of how he came to find himself in this unbelievable situation flew straight out of his head when the professor pulled a short smooth stick of wood out of his robes and pointed it at his aunt and uncle, his hand visibly shaking with rage. Aunt Petunia gave a terrified shriek and threw herself to the side while her husband stood there looking vaguely confused, the thought 'Am I suppose to be cowed by a switch?' written plainly on his face.

But instead of trying to hit anyone with it the professor waved it in the air, his eyes flashing, and snarled “You haven't the right to sully Dumbledore's name with your filthy muggle lips.”

A brilliant white light shot from the tip of the stick straight at Uncle Vernon who managed to move with surprising speed for a man of his bulk. The beam of light flew over his head, bounced off of the stone fireplace not far from where Harry stood and ricocheted back into the room.

Dudley, who had been sitting on the couch trying to convince himself that he would soon be going home to reunite with his TV and VCR and computer, looked up just in time for it to hit him squarely between the eyes.

Harry's brain had long ago shut down from pure unadulterated shock. Nothing had really been making sense to him since he had picked up the mail and read his name on a simple little envelope. Had it only been a few days ago? If he had been capable of actual thought he might have been amused by the cross-eyed look Dudley had on his fat face as he tried to figure out what had hit him. 

As it was all Harry could manage to do was stare blankly at his cousin as Dudley's eyes bulged out and his hands waved uselessly in the air in front of him. His normally soft petulant mouth took on a pinched sort of look and his jowls quivered. Something very odd was occurring.

Suddenly Dudley's eyes started to recede and his nose seemed to swell. In fact, his whole body was twisting and shifting, his skin rippling like a still pond someone had thrown a rock into.

“Dudley!” Aunt Petunia screamed as she ran towards him. What she thought she was going to accomplish was uncertain but before she could get there Dudley fell forward off the couch. Fell forward to land, not on his hands and knees, but on hooves.

“No,” Uncle Vernon whispered in horror as he watched his son tear and rip at the clothes that no longer fit him.

Aunt Petunia fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around what had once been her son and started sobbing onto the back of a very displeased pink pig. Curly tail and all.


	3. Chapter 3

“What have you done to my son?” Uncle Vernon asked in stunned dismay.

“Yes, well, I may have gotten a little carried away but it isn't much of a deviation from his usual demeanor, I dare say.” Everyone winced as Aunt Petunia let out a particularly piercing howl and the professor hurried to add, “Though easily remedied.”

Uncle Vernon never took his eyes off his wife and malformed son as he asked again in a deceptively mild voice, “What have you done to my family?”

“I hardly think a little cosmetic...” the professor started defensively only to break off with an affronted look as Uncle Vernon swept past him without a glance.

“Are you happy now? Do you see what you've accomplished?!”

Harry knew better than to answer or even look up. He had learned the hard way that a word, a sound, even a movement, when his uncle was this worked up would only lead to pain and anguish. Staring fixedly at his uncle's left knee Harry pressed himself harder against the warm stone surrounding the fireplace and thought longingly of his dingy, dark, dirty cupboard under the stairs.

It was tiny and drafty and no amount of cleaning could keep the dust and spiders from falling off the stairs onto his head when Dudley clomped down them but it was exactly those things that kept his uncle from following him in there most of the time.

“We tried to raise you up right like honest god-fearing folk. The Lord knows it wasn't easy but we tried our best. I should have known from the start it wouldn't make a lick of difference. Less than a year old and you had already ripped your own family apart and been left on our doorstep like so much trash! You've brought doom to this family as surely as you destroyed your own.”

“Destroyed them?” Harry whispered despite himself. “You said my parents died in a car accident.”

“A car accident would be too good for the likes of them,” Uncle Vernon said maliciously. “No, it was you that brought about their end. Murdered in their own home by those they consorted with. Evil, nasty people are drawn to you, boy. And you'll take everyone down with you just by being near them. Well, I won't allow it. I'll beat the freakishness out of you if I have to.”

With that Harry braced for a blow that never came. When he opened his eyes his uncle's face was queer and he slumped to the floor like a sack of bricks.

“That is quite enough of that,” the professor told the unconscious man as he tucked away his stick.

Aunt Petunia redoubled her gut-wrenching sobs as she tried to drag Dudley over to check on her husband. Dudley appeared to be, if it were possible, even less biddable as a pig than he had been as a boy.

“Cease and desist your incessant caterwauling, woman,” the professor said sharply, “or I shall be forced to do to you what I did to your husband.”

Aunt Petunia choked back a particularly loud sob and glared at the professor through watery red-rimmed eyes.

“Better. Now, we could continue exchanging bile all night or I could simply get on with the job I was taxed with before we all grow old and grey. Your son will start reverting back to his usual revolting self in a couple hours. Your husband will do the same not long after. I suggest you use this time to think on all the things that could befall your family if you do not heed my words.”

Aunt Petunia opened her mouth, seemed to think better of it and shut it with an audible click. A single sharp nod was all she gave but it seemed enough.

“Now, you may remember me as a feckless twit of a boy but trust me when I say I possess very real powers quite beyond your comprehension.” The truth of his words was everywhere in the room and Aunt Petunia merely nodded again. “You will do as I say and we two shall never need meet again. But if I hear of one deviation, no matter how slight, I will make it a point to find you and rehash old times. Do I make myself clear, _Tuney?”_

The childish nickname sounded harsh and bitter coming from the professor's lips and Harry had never seen his aunt looking so cowed. Then those obsidian chips for eyes turned on Harry and his breath froze in his chest.

“You, Mr. Potter, will be accompanying me. Considering the hour we will no doubt be renting a room in a lodging establishment for what remains of the night. Tomorrow we will be purchasing your school supplies and attempting to find you somewhere to stay until term starts. Hopefully they are right in saying absence makes the heart grow fonder and you will find your welcome back much improved. Any objections?”

Harry glanced over at his aunt who sat staring blankly at her hands, twisting them into nervous shapes in her lap, as her husband lay insensate beside her and her son rooted under the couch, foraging for food. He shook his head minutely and prayed to anyone willing to listen that he continue to survive the night.

“Then I see no reason to dally in this place a moment longer,” the professor said as he moved closer. “Take my arm and we shall be on our way.”

For a second Harry was torn. His entire world had been pitched upside down by this complete stranger. Nothing in his life made sense anymore and he doubted that would be changing anytime soon. Especially if he went with this man.

But the memories he carried inside of all the nasty malicious things the Dursleys had done to him over the years bubbled up and lent him a steely resolve that allowed him to take the few steps from where he was still plastered to the fireplace to the man's side.

“Very well,” the professor said without commenting on the slight delay. He thrust out his elbow and Harry touched it tentatively, he gripped more sleeve than anything else but it seemed to be enough. “Traveling this way can be slightly disorienting for a beginner. Hold tight and it will be over soon.”

Harry didn't have time to ask traveling what way would be disorienting before the world seemed to be yanked away from him at blinding speed. Then he was the one being torn away as his shoes left the ground and he was hurtled through space.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry would have tipped over and ended up bruising himself if he hadn't been holding onto the professor's arm for all he was worth. As it was he leaned heavily against the man as he tried desperately to convince his body that it was all in one piece and not scattered about the countryside or all jumbled up in the wrong order.

“I did warn you that it would be a tad alarming,” a darkly amused voice broke into his agitated state. “If you feel the need to be sick may I direct your attention towards the alley and away from my shoes?”

A tad?! Harry glared at the man as he stubbornly told his stomach to sit down and shut up. He was not going to let his patronizing traveling companion know how much the trip had affected him.

“Ah, so there is some spirit left in you after all. I was starting to fear the muggles had beaten the majority of it out of you,” the professor mused as he gazed down at Harry's upturned face. “I should have known better. Your mother was a right vixen when she was riled. You have her eyes and, I dare say, her temper by the looks of things. That ridiculous hair and stubborn chin are all your father though.”

Harry felt the words set off a fierce ache in his gut. Someone who had known his parents and seemed willing to talk! The same someone who had taken him away from the wretched Dursleys and told them they had to be nice to him, who had stopped Uncle Vernon from hitting him and turned Dudley into a pig. An honest to goodness pig!

Harry opened his mouth to ask any of a billion questions he had been burning to ask about his parents over the years but his mouth stretched wider and wider as his traitorous body forced a yawn on him. Suddenly his body felt like it weighed five times its normal amount and he swayed on his feet. It was entirely possible he would have landed face first on the broken and cracked pavement if the professor hadn't reached out fast as a striking snake to haul him back upright.

“I do believe that our precipitate departure coupled with a most eventful night and your obvious lack of proper nutrition has caught up to you. What in Merlin's name Albus thought he was doing leaving Lily's son with her harpy of a sister and those clod-headed muggles when any wizarding family out there would have given their wand hand to foster the Boy-Who-Lived. Why even a squib would...” the professor rambled on as he walked, half dragging Harry behind him.

Harry was barely aware enough to register the fact that the man was still talking, much less understand what he was saying. All he knew was that the sound of the professor's deep voice was soothing as he stumbled along in the man's wake like a duckling after its mother.

The building they entered was a rundown place full of strange old-fashioned furnishings and odd-looking people but it was little more than a blur to Harry's overtaxed brain. The proprietor was a creepy Igor-like man who stared at Harry long enough to make him uncomfortable before he finally led the sneering professor to a nondescript room with a massive fourposter bed that made Harry feel even more tired just looking at it.

The effort of removing his shoes must have revived him slightly, however, because when he crawled into bed he didn't shut his eyes immediately but watched bemusedly as the man gestured a scroll and old-fashioned quill into existence and began dictating as he poked around the room looking for Harry had no idea what.

Albus (the letter started tersely)

Circumstances demanded a change in plans. 

I have the Potter boy in hand and will retrieve your package tomorrow when I escort him to Diagon Alley.

His guardians do not appear up to the task of outfitting him for his future academic endeavors.

Or much else. (Harry gritted his teeth at this statement. His classmates had been much harsher in their assessment of Dudley's old raggedy castoffs but it still smarted.)

You and I will be having words.

Severus

He opened his mouth to ask why the man felt he needed an escort to visit an alley but a curious “Severus?” popped out of his mouth instead and the man stiffened. 

Harry winced at his unfailing ability to get himself into trouble and contemplated for a moment strangling himself with the bed covers before the man relaxed slightly.

“I have been rather remiss in introducing myself, have I not?” he asked. With a mocking little flourish of his robes he bowed deeply. “Professor Severus Snape, Potions master of Hogwarts, Head of Slytherin House, at your service.” 

This man was quite theatrical Harry thought with amusement, as the letter rolled itself up tightly and dropped into the professor's outstretched hand. He stood with a rustle of fabric and gave a sharp whistle that startled Harry into sitting up again.

A window opened, letting in a slight breeze and a beautiful inky black owl dusted with white. It flew once around the room before landing elegantly on the professor's shoulder. Harry had never seen such a magnificent bird before, it had the heart-shaped face of a barn owl but its markings reminded him of a star-studded sky at midnight.

Belatedly Harry realized that must have been what the letter meant when it said they awaited his reply by owl. He should have figured as much after all the hullabaloo caused by the owls trying to deliver their missives to Privet Drive but so much was happening in such a short amount of time that Harry was having trouble keeping up.

Besides, Harry didn't have an owl and he wouldn't have had any idea how to find one in order to reply anyway. Even if he had managed to figure out a way to read his letter before it was too late.

As it was he watched awestruck as the owl deigned to allow the professor to attach the scroll to its outstretched leg then ran its beak affectionately through the man's lank black hair. He gave the bird a soft stroke of the head before he realized Harry was staring and, with an embarrassed cough, straightened up with stiff formailty. The bird gave Harry a darkly impenetrable look eerily reminiscent of his master's before taking off. 

It circled the room twice before soaring back out through the same window it had come in. The window shut with a solid thunk leaving its occupants in silence.

“Sleep well,” Severus said briskly, though not unkindly, as he straightened his robes. “I will meet you downstairs in the morning. Good night, Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” he said as he fought off a yawn and settled back down.

Severus paused halfway out the door and stared at Harry for a long moment.

“Good night, Harry,” he finally allowed just as Harry's eyes were closing against his mightiest efforts.

“Night, 'Fessor,” he mumbled into his pillow and then he knew no more.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry felt that, by rights, he should have been more disoriented when he woke up. With everything that had been going on recently he felt as if his brain should have given him the chance to wake up believing himself back in his tiny little bed in the cupboard under the stairs where things felt, if not happy or peaceful, at least normal.

Unfortunately Harry had given up lying to himself years ago. The days of dreaming about people swooping in to take him away from the horrible Dursleys, to love him and tuck him into soft beds with sweet words and gentle touches, were long gone. It just seemed to make a world full of Aunt Petunia's shrill orders, Dudley's malicious shenanigans and Uncle Vernon's temper that much harder to face.

Funny how it wasn't until he had given up entirely on the concept of rescue that one had occurred. It almost made everything that had happened in the last few days seem more real then if he had still been a starry-eyed child wishing for a fairy godmother to set everything right. He couldn't decide if that was comforting or not.

Not that Harry had ever been a starry-eyed child.

Nor was Professor Snape anyone's vision of a fairy godmother.

Harry gave an amused snort and sat up against the headboard, hugging his knees tightly to his chest and wondering when precisely his life had gone pear-shaped. Was it when that first letter had fallen through the door flap to land on the Dursleys' floor? Or had it started long ago when he was a mere babe in arms with no concept of what his future would entail.

Well, Harry was no mewling babe any more but he certainly had no clearer picture of what was to come then he had had back then. Life, it seemed, was not finished tossing curve balls his way.

At this point Harry's stomach decided that it had had quite enough introspection before breakfast, thank you very much, and gave a dismayingly loud gurgle. When was the last time he had eaten? Everything since they had left Privet Drive was a blur in his mind.

Harry was no stranger to deprivation but some tinned tomatoes and a bag of chips in twenty-four hours wasn't much and he vaguely remembered there being a dining room downstairs. Which is where he was suppose to be meeting his... rescuer? deliverer? emancipator? The professor, anyway.

Harry slid out of the bed that felt as big as an Olympic-sized pool compared to his meager bed back home. No, he corrected himself, back at the Dursleys. In fact, everything about this room was so far removed from the Dursleys that he could hardly believe they inhabited the same world.

Aunt Petunia kept her house much as she kept herself; prim, proper and wholly untouchable. This room, with its tattered rug, peeling wallpaper and battered oak furniture, felt worn and yet inviting.

Harry even smiled at the mandatory pastoral painting on one wall. Someone had done a surprisingly good job of depicting a panoramic view of the countryside in early spring. He almost fancied he could see a flock of sheep way off in the distance.

Scratch that, he _could_ see a flock of sheep off in the distance. And they were getting bigger. No, not bigger... closer! They were stampeding straight towards Harry as a rugged shepherd raced along behind waving his arms and shouting obscenities nearly drowned out by the herd's pathetic bawling.

Harry stood petrified as they raced towards him until, at the last possible second, they wheeled round and raced past the frame and out of sight. Unable to help himself he took a step back in shock and knocked into a dresser that gave a tired wheeze and tried to offer him a spare pillow.

A blanket slithered out of another drawer and attempted to wrap him up snugly only to succeed in half strangling him. As he tried desperately to untangle the blanket and continue breathing the pillow began hitting him in the back of the head in an effort to capture his attention.

He managed to swat the pillow out of the air only to have it hit an old transistor radio sitting in the corner that sprang to life blaring out “Good morning, wizarding world, you are listening to WWN. I am Lou Pyne and this is your morning wake-up call. It is now fifteen of the hour and what better way to start your day than with a sold gold oldie. This goes out to all you early birds!”

A breathy falsetto started crooning at Harry as he fought valiantly to subdue the wayward bedding.

“I owled you a letter, darling, but it flew right back to me. I flooed you some flowers, baby, but you threw them out quick as could be. I brewed you up a potion, honey, but you tossed it in the sea. I gave you my heart, sweetie, but you hexed my nose right off of meee...”

Harry tied a corner of the blanket to one of the drawer handles and ran for a partially open door on the other side of the room with his arms over his head trying to ward off the persistent pillow. He slipped through the crack, slammed the door shut and pressed his back to it as the pillow beat ineffectually against the other side like a giant moth against a lantern.

Sighing in relief he took in the sight of the small, ordinary-looking washroom that had all the modern amenities, if woefully out-of-date. A claw foot tube with a dingy looking shower curtain hanging from large iron rings took up most of the room. Squeezed into what little space was left over was an old toilet, the kind with the tank high on the wall and a pull chain to flush, and a sink with a large oval mirror sporting a dusty ornate frame.

“Where's the fire, deary,” a cheerful-sounding biddy chirped.

Harry jumped nearly out of his skin and spun towards where the voice had come from. All he saw was himself, wild-eyed and panicking, reflected in the mirror.

“That's some hair you have there. Sure you wouldn't fancy a touch of Sleekeazy's before you're seen in public, hmm?” the voice came again.

Harry's hand automatically went up in an attempt to flatten his disheveled hair even though he knew it was a lost cause. Nothing could keep his unruly mop under control for long. Aunt Petunia had tried everything from glue to motor oil to no avail.

“Uhm, no, thank you, ma'am,” Harry mumbled before he bolted from the room.

“At least change your clothes,” the voice called after him. “You look like you've been to a swamp troll's rummage sale!”

A cackling laugh followed him as Harry bolted across the bedroom to the only other door in the room, well ahead of the flustered pillow, and fled down the hallway at a terrified gallop.


	6. Chapter 6

The building followed no rhyme or reason that Harry could discern and he managed to take three wrong turns, shut himself in a linen closet and receive several scoldings from people both in residence and in the portraits that lined the walls before he found the handsome wooden staircase that he vaguely remembered from the night before.

Snape sat at a corner table in the main dining area with the morning paper folded over his knee, a cup of something steaming hot in one hand and a plate heaped high with toast in front of him. He pushed the plate of toast closer to Harry without looking up from the paper when Harry slipped unobtrusively into the opposite seat.

Harry snagged a slice and, with a quick glance at his completely oblivious companion, covered it with a thick layer of jam before taking a huge bite. He nearly spit it back out when the overwhelming taste of kippers exploded in his mouth.

Only the thought of what the professor, who was quite obviously not a morning person if his scowl was anything to go by, would do to him if he were to be showered in toast crumbs convinced Harry to swallow the revolting mouthful.

He stared at the innocent-looking red jam in betrayal for several long seconds. Was nothing in the world he seemed to have found himself in capable of being taken at face value?

He tried a second more cautious bite and had to grab the glass of juice he just now noticed sitting in front of him to wash the taste of black pudding out of his mouth. The juice was sweet without being overpowering, though slightly thicker than he was used to, and had a bland sort of spiciness to it.

It certainly wasn't the orange juice he would have expected anywhere else but it was more than acceptable for cleansing his mouth of the revolting tastes.

Placing the contaminated piece of toast on the table Harry picked up another slice and ate it dry, not even bothering to investigate the other pots on the table. He drank more juice to ease its passage and gave a philosophical sigh. It wasn't the worst meal he had ever eaten, all things considered.

Especially not when he remembered back to when Aunt Petunia was first trying to teach him how to cook and she had forced him to eat his mistakes. She claimed it was because they couldn't afford to waste food but Harry had seen Dudley toss entire meals out the window because he didn't like the look of the vegetables on his plate. Harry had always thought it was more likely some sort of twisted learning experience.

There was no threat like that of accidentally poisoning yourself to motivate you into picking up a skill quickly. And it certainly put all the times he had been denied food as punishment into perspective.

Harry glanced around at the bustling activity in the small pub with some interest as he continued munching on pieces of toast. All sorts of people were sitting down for a light meal or just passing through on their way to somewhere else.

A group of older ladies, obviously just in from the country and intent on a day of shopping, chatted brightly across a table. A venerable man in a purple pinstripe suit that appeared to be moldering slightly at the wrists was smoking a ridiculously long pipe in a corner. Other people were situated throughout the room either staring blearily at their plates or gulping down various beverages in a vain attempt to prepare themselves for the day.

A tall thin figure completely swathed in gauze-like veils -- that continued shifting idly as if in some unfelt breeze even while it was standing still -- paused at the bar to murmur to the weathered toothless innkeeper, Tom or Tim Harry thought he remembered the man being called. Someone in a set of robes that were either the yellowest green or the greenest yellow he had ever seen in his life descended the stairs and exited through the door he and the professor had entered the night before.

A middle-aged fellow, wearing what Harry would have termed ordinary clothes, sat in the far corner reading a book. He would have looked right at home in any normal diner or coffee shop if it weren't for the fact that his drink was idly stirring itself and his breakfast seemed to be hovering helpfully nearby. If a bacon sandwich could be said to look helpful.

Yet more people seemed intent on a door near the back, including a harried woman trying to keep track of a number of children intent on investigating everything in sight. One of them was attempting to climb inside the giant cast iron tea kettle floating about the room topping up people's cups.

It paused near their table but Professor Snape held his hand over his cup without looking up and the kettle moved on rather reluctantly. The child gave Harry a gap-toothed grin from where he dangled under the spout like a monkey before his mother's voice rose sharply and he was wrenched back to her side as if someone had snapped a rubber band.

Harry watched the bustle and activity with wide eyes until he was startled from his people-watching reverie by the sound of the paper the professor had been reading slapping down on the table with surprising force. He turned towards the sound automatically -- he had learned long ago that any loud noises in his vicinity were bound to end badly for him -- and gasped aloud as he stared at the newspaper in fascination.

An excited woman in the same classic witch's hat that many of their fellow patrons were sporting winked up at him and pointed energetically to the article beside her that proclaimed “Housewitch Wins Magical Lottery; Says First Thing She'll Do Is Hire Warbeck For 99th Birthday Party!” in bold letters.

Other articles crowded around in a bewildering array of information: “Ministry Widens Investigation into Allegations of Price Gouging in Floo Powder Market”; “Gringotts Squashes Rumors of 'Bank Lending Freeze' After Glacius Charm Gone Awry, 'None of Your Gorram Business,' Spokesgoblin Comments”; “Department of Magical Games and Sports Lashes Out at Press Freedom Groups Fighting For More Access to Professional Quidditch Players”; “Wizengamot Vote Near Unanimous to Support Social Reforms in Underprivileged Wizarding Communities.”

“The Daily Disappointment strikes again,” Professor Snape announced acidly. “I cannot, for the life of me, recall why I keep my subscription.”

He drained the last of whatever was in his cup with a grimace and fixed Harry with a dark look.

“Well?” he demanded. “Are you nearly finished? We have much to accomplish today.”

Harry hurriedly swallowed his last bite of toast and nodded. He had never been much for breakfast anyway. Usually he was too busy to care, what with cooking enough to feed his relatives whilst trying to redo the homework that Dudley had destroyed the night before or trying to get out to the garden to do the chores his aunt had set him before the heat of the day kicked in.

“Very good. Do you have your letter on you?” The man held out his hand expectantly and Harry passed it over with extreme reluctance. After all the trouble he had gone through since he had first seen it Harry found he had a hard time letting it go. But the thought of what the professor might do to him if he refused flashed through his head. He had no desire to join Dudley in his porcine existence.

“Hmm,” Professor Snape murmured as he glanced through it. “All the usual first-year supplies with maybe a judicious addition or two. Shouldn't take too long.”

“Please, sir,” Harry tried to say, his voice breaking with anxiety. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I'm sorry but I... I don't know how we're going to pay for any of this.”

Professor Snape eyed him over the list of supplies and Harry colored but held his ground. 

“Then our first stop will be Gringotts,” the professor stated decisively, handing his letter back before pulling out the stick from the night before. “Then off to Ollivander's for a wand of your own.” He flicked the stick -- no, wand -- contemplatively. “Or perhaps achieving a decent wardrobe ought to be a higher priority.”

Harry's flush deepened at the way he was regarding Dudley's nasty old hand-me-downs but he refused to be put off.

“No, I mean I don't have any money at all,” Harry said with a shake of his head. “And you heard Uncle Vernon. They refuse to pay for anything related to Hogwarts. I assume that includes dragon gloves and crystal cauldrons.”

He tried to emulate Professor Snape's mocking tone but ended up sounding miserable instead. This was an issue he had known was lurking in the back of his mind but hadn't been able to air until now. After all the Dursleys had put him through over the years, while lecturing him on how grateful he should be and allowing others to praise their supposed generosity, Harry felt unwilling to accept the charity of others.

“That's dragonhide gloves and pewter cauldrons,” Professor Snape corrected him. “Dragonglove is a flower often used in potions with strong calming properties and crystal is useless for brewing all but the most magically inert potions. It resonates too deeply.”

Harry continued staring at the man fixedly. He didn't want the professor to think any less of him, though having met the Dursleys Harry wasn't sure that was even possible, but he refused to just go along with things and hope for the best. He had had more than enough of that in his life and things had never managed to turn out for the best. 

Starting now he was going to be taking a more active role in how things got accomplished, whether those around him appreciated it or not. The professor's lips twisted into an amused smile.

“No need to get stroppy with me, young man,” he finally replied. “There is a trust set up in your name by your parents. The goblins have been caring for it until such time as you had need of it. You are no longer solely beholden on your hideous relatives.”

Professor Snape swirled to his feet, his robes flaring dramatically around him, and swept off as Harry tried to come to terms with yet another life-altering fact in a seemingly unending stream of them.


	7. Chapter 7

They had almost reached the back door, Harry absently following Professor Snape's swirling hem more than anything else, when the professor stopped short. Only Harry's quick reflexes kept him from piling into the back of the man so distracted was he by half-formed daydreams of finding a way to live off the trust under an assumed name, never to see the Dursleys again.

“Yes?” Professor Snape demanded irritably of the innkeeper who had intercepted them. “I distinctly recall settling up with you last night. Unless there is some discrepancy with the amount we agreed upon?”

Harry was amazed at how easily the man could cut the wind out from underneath someone with just his tone and a few well chosen words. It was a skill that Harry admired, it certainly would have come in handy while he was growing up.

“No, no trouble with the bill. None at all,” the ugly little man babbled deferentially. “Just wanted to offer my sincerest gratitude to Mr. Harry Potter for choosing my fine establishment for his first venture back into the wizarding world.”

Harry gaped at the man, his mind unable to process the words coming out of his mouth. The room erupted into murmurs and he could hear his name being repeated everywhere. People started crowding around and Harry drew as close to the professor as he could without appearing to cling.

“And now you have,” Professor Snape replied with a dark look. “Now, if you please, we are in a bit of a hurry.”

With that he grabbed Harry's elbow and took off, only Harry's quick feet allowing him to keep up and not flutter along behind the man like a kite.

“Quickly now,” the professor murmured as he drew Harry outside. He caught a glimpse of a dingy little alcove that hardly deserved the name before the man drew his stick -- wand, his brain insisted again -- and tapped on the brick wall in front of them.

There were only so many times one's mind could stop in pure unadulterated shock in a twenty-four hour period and Harry had flown past that number long ago. So it was that he barely managed a startled glance when the bricks twisted and writhed into an arched opening that Professor Snape whisked him through before it had fully opened only to plunge headlong into the seething mass of people on the other side.

He dragged Harry behind a cart just as the crowd they had left in the inn burst through the opening behind them. Harry watched in horror as they cast about, trying to figure out which direction he and the professor had escaped in, before slowly beginning to disperse.

Harry thought he recognized one exceptionally persistent man, a tiny fellow whose top hat was in danger of falling off in his energetic search, as someone who had greeted Harry once a long time ago. He only remembered the incident because he had been placed on bread and water rations for three weeks when he had been unable to explain to his Aunt Petunia why such a funny-looking person was bowing to him.

“Well,” the professor broke into his thoughts. “There is one thing to be said for that ridiculous hair of yours. No one noticed your scar until that fool Tom announced your name to all and sundry.”

“My scar?” Harry repeated as he patted his fringe down over the offending mark self-consciously.

It was a reflexive gesture, a habit he had picked up over the years to ward off curious stares and hurtful comments. Children could be cruel to those who differed from themselves and Dudley's reputation of bullying those who got close to Harry gave them incentive to practice loudly and often.

“There aren't many in the wizarding world, man or child, who wouldn't recognize that scar on sight,” Professor Snape said, in that neutral tone Harry was starting to recognize as his way of passing along unfortunate information.

Harry stared at him. “But... why?” he asked in utter incomprehension.

“I had wondered how insulated you would be growing up away from your own people. Many of us argued when Dumbledore announced who you would be living with until you came of an age to enter Hogwarts,” Snape groused. “But to find you know nothing at all! That is truly too much.”

Harry felt a strange little thrill at the way the professor said the words 'your people,' so unlike the way Uncle Vernon spat 'your kind' when he thought Harry had done something suspicious or out of the ordinary.

Then he bristled.

“I know some stuff!” he announced defensively. “I'm not stupid or anything. I can read and do sums and stuff.”

“So good to know that 'stuff' includes such an advanced vocabulary.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

“Merlin, defend me,” the professor murmured to the sky in supplication. Then he turned back to Harry. “I meant no disrespect to your, no doubt, exceptional mental acuity. I was merely lamenting the short-sightedness of the headmaster's decision in leaving you with those horrid relatives of yours after your parents' demise. He, of all people, ought to have been aware that your aunt's overwhelming jealousy would have prevented her from passing on any significant knowledge regarding your own history and our way of life.”

Harry uncrossed his arms with a grin despite the mention of his parents' death. He had had plenty of time to come to terms with it as often as his aunt and uncle liked rub it in his face by complaining that his parents had 'kicked it' with the sole intention of saddling them with Harry's care.

Harry was finding himself pleasantly amused by his escort's odd mannerisms. Professor Snape talked like someone had force fed him a thesaurus as a baby and he couldn't seem to help peppering his conversation with sarcastic remarks but Harry didn't mind. It was nice to have someone willing to talk to him as if he was an actual human being and not something one would find on the bottom of one's shoe after walking through a dog park.

Besides, Harry had seen the man lose his temper with the hideous Dursleys. And who wouldn't? Lord knows Uncle Vernon could try the patience of a saint. Professor Snape may have dropped the fancy words to spit out more commonplace insults but no one had died or been seriously maimed. As long as he was still tossing out long words and mocking little jibes Harry thought he was pretty safe.

“Why would anyone recognize my scar when I didn't even know this world existed until a few days ago,” he demanded, deciding to press his luck despite the niggling little voice at the back of his head.

Harry had never been able to curb his natural curiosity, even when it would have saved him some abuse at the Dursleys' hands, and he didn't allow himself to be sidetracked now.

“There is a time and a place for this sort of discussion and this is neither the time nor the...” Professor Snape trailed off with a sigh as Harry's jaw firmed. “Merlin, you are stubborn, aren't you. Your mother's son through and through.”

Mention of his mother hit him in the gut like it always did but he let it pass for now. He had always been hungry for news of his parents but somehow this all seemed to be linked. He needed to understand his place in this strange new world if he was going to be able to make his way through it with any ease.

“I'm not sure I would be the best candidate to explain this,” Professor Snape started but before Harry could do more than open his mouth in irritation he continued. “But I suppose you do deserve a brief explanation of your history at that. If only to explain why the mere mention of your name causes such public furor.”

Silence held sway for several long moments but it was the silence of someone collecting their thoughts and Harry waited with bated breath.

“Well, I suppose it started in the usual way. With someone who wanted more power than they had and so set about trying to correct that fact,” the professor offered after a moment's quiet reflection. “Only, as he collected that power and grew stronger, he started having these ideas about who was worthy enough to join him in his quest. He felt anyone who was different or unique needed to be removed. Violently.”

Harry gave a slow blink but otherwise held himself very still.

“An unfortunate number of people flocked to him sensing revolution in the air. And they were right. He viewed muggles and our attempts to remain apart from them as a weakness. A weakness that needed to be exorcised if he was going to become as powerful as he felt he deserved. And so he began a war against muggles and all those sympathetic to them.”

“Muggles like my family,” Harry interjected. The sun was shining but he felt a chill in his bones and had to suppress a shiver.

“Muggles like the Dursleys, yes,” the man said sharply. “Your mother may have been born into a muggle family but there was nothing that could keep her from joining us, so special and breathtaking a talent was she.”

Harry smiled at the admiration coloring the professor's tone as he spoke of Harry's mother. It seemed quite unintentional and made him proud that she had affected this powerful man to such a degree.

“And my father?” he asked despite himself. Harry had always been good at picking up on subtle clues and something told him that the way Professor Snape avoided mentioning his father even as he praised his mother meant there was no love lost between them.

“The Potter family is an old pure-blood line of the highest standing,” Snape replied sourly, confirming Harry's guess. “Your father had never even met a muggle before he started attending Hogwarts.”

“He went to Hogwarts, too?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Both your parents attended Hogwarts. As did I, and any number of other people who both knew and admired them. None of which has any bearing on the discussion at hand,” Professor Snape said with a warning tone as Harry opened his mouth again.

“As I was saying,” he continued reprovingly in the face of Harry's unrepentant look. “If he had continued unchecked he would have pushed for the utter extermination of muggles, muggle sympathizers and those of,” he paused a second then continued carefully, “mixed heritage.”

“Like my mother,” Harry breathed.

“Like your mother,” the man allowed. “Or yourself.”

“What happened?” Harry demanded. “How was he defeated?” The professor gave him a sharp look and Harry shrugged. “The Dursleys are still here. He can't have gotten too far.”

“You are correct,” he replied with an approving tone and Harry preened. “Dumbledore and all those who followed him, including your parents, stood against him. They fought for years to keep his threat from spreading but nothing could keep the fear at bay. It became so bad even squibs, people born to wizarding families but with no magic of their own,” he explained hastily when Harry opened his mouth again, “began fearing for their lives. They went into hiding in the muggle world in order to escape him.

“Entire families with known muggle ties fled in terror. We were on the brink of a war that was tearing the wizarding world apart and threatened genocide on an unthinkable scale. And it appeared there was truly nothing to stop him.”

Harry's breath caught in his throat. If this was the professor's version of a brief explanation he'd hate to see his thoughts on light reading but honestly Harry found it fascinating. This was much more enthralling than any movie Dudley had ever watched.

“Until?” Harry prompted.

“Well, until you came along.”

Harry stared at the man nonplussed. “Huh?” he asked eloquently.

“I told you that perhaps I was not the best person to explain this to you,” the professor said defensively. “By rights Dumbledore should be the one doing this, not I. Though even he does not truly understand all that transpired that night.

“What did happen was that this power-hungry individual took it into his head to visit your parents. They were the epitome of all that was good and right in the wizarding world, your parents; powerful and pure and driven. They were a shining beacon, a ray of hope in such dark and troubled times. Now whether he went to bind them to his cause or divest Dumbledore of one more arrow in his quiver no one living knows.

“All we do know for sure is that a most terrible battle raged that night. Your parents lost their lives but they did not go quietly. And yet when he tried to take yours as well something went awry. His curse rebounded somehow and caught him instead. Leaving you parentless but the wizarding world free from oppression.

"It may not seem like much consolation but the entire world, not just the wizarding one, owes you a great debt, Harry Potter."


End file.
